


And Underneath It All Is Love (The Tear Down Your Walls Remix)

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's true never changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Underneath It All Is Love (The Tear Down Your Walls Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissyJack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyJack/gifts).
  * Inspired by [If These Walls Could Talk](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/45751) by missyjack. 



> This story kicked my ass. It did not want to come to me until one day before the deadline, and I had to wrestle my muse for each and every word. So I'm a little worried about the end result; it's possible that it turned out being too loose an interpretation of the original basic premise. My apologies to the original author if that's a disappointment. 
> 
> Probable shmoop. Also wee!cest; though their ages aren't specified in the story, in my mind Sam is 16 in the one sex scene I wrote.

Dean can still remember their house in Lawrence. Not as it was when they helped Jenny and her children (the second floor rebuilt and the walls repainted) but the house as it used to be. Once, long ago, before the fire. Before their mother burned, before fear and monsters and salt and scars. 

Not before Sammy, though. There are no memories before that. As if Dean's life didn't really start until Sam was a part of his world. As if nothing had made enough sense before he knew he was going to be a big brother. 

Dean's earliest memory is of sunshine coming in through the kitchen windows. Sunshine, golden-yellow and warm (and everything he remembers from that time is tinged that color) glowing in Mary's hair, streaming down her neck and arms like water. Her hands rubbing up and down her pregnant belly as she told Dean about his baby brother. Not quite there yet, but soon.

He remembers sitting on the floor as he covered the walls with drawings, his crayons scattered next to him, a rainbow at his fingertips. Brown and green were for the trees and ground and grass, yellow for the sun. Sensible colors for a sensible world. The blue was for the sky, worn down to nothing because Dean was always trying to draw it as big and tall as it looked. The black was of course for Daddy's car, and there were flowers too because Mommy liked them, pretty purple ones, even though Dean had wanted to draw purple dinosaurs instead. The orange he used to draw Mommy and Daddy with, himself and baby Sammy; barely more than stick figures, but when Mary smiled at him, indulgent, affectionate, Dean was sure that this was his best drawing yet; even better than the race cars that were usually his favorite, big-wheeled and happy-colored, chasing each other endlessly around the kitchen walls. 

"Even when you're all grown up," he remembers Mary telling him as she looked at his drawing, "your family will still love you more than anything else."

The red crayon had rolled away from him, nearly under the fridge, and after Dean scrambled to get it, he drew a heart around Mommy and Daddy, then another one around himself and baby Sammy. 

"This much?" he asked his mother, rubbing his nose and coming to stand next to where she was sitting at the kitchen table. 

"This much and more," Mary said, stroking his hair. And Dean leaned into her and closed his eyes as she hugged him, feeling the baby kick inside her belly as he hugged her back. 

Sometimes, Dean almost convinces himself that he can still remember how warm and soft his mother had felt. 

*

His bed had been warm and soft too. Cozy, safe, Mary's goodnight kiss still lingering against his forehead when her scream woke Dean up the night of the fire. 

What Dean remembers the most is the heat. Not really the fire itself; not that first time. (Not like when Jessica burned.) Heat shimmering like a wall between him and Sammy's nursery as he stood in the hallway calling for his mother. He remembers the urgency in his father's voice, the baby's weight as he was pressed into his shaking arms. 

He wasn't supposed to run on the stairs. Mommy and Daddy were always telling him to be careful. With the stairs, _and_ with the baby. But Dean ran anyway, hurried through the dark house, burst out panting and wide-eyed into the night, clutching Sammy tight to him. 

Later, after the shouts of the firemen and the curious stares of the neighbors, after Daddy's incomprehensible words ( _Mommy's gone_ ) Dean's world slowed down to a near halt for a while. There'd been a long trembling pause (days, weeks) when he didn't speak, didn't draw any pictures, didn't have Mommy's arms around him anymore ( _She's not coming back_ ) and, most of the time, not Daddy's either. 

Daddy had smelled like whiskey all the time then. Mommy had never liked it when Daddy smelled like that, and Dean found that he didn't like it much either. 

Sammy would cry constantly, as if letting Dean know he was missing Mommy too. So Dean would hold his baby brother (Daddy was too sad) and whisper words that were barely audible, meant for Sam alone. He'd curl around Sam as they slept, shielding him with his body, his love, his will. The only things Dean had to offer him. 

And it's funny. Remembering it, Dean would laugh if it didn't hurt so much. 

Funny how, even so many years later, those are still the only things he has to protect his brother with. 

*

All he has to give is himself, and they're pressed tight together, Sam's chest to Dean's back, Sam's cock buried up to the balls inside him, Sam's hand cupping and stroking him, Sam's lips against his neck, against his ear. Sam's breaths, Sam's scent, Sam's thrusts; it's all Dean knows, all Dean wants. The only thing keeping Dean upright is the wall Sam is fucking him into, Dean's cheek rubbing against it, Dean's hands splayed wide against the ugly wallpaper. His fingers twitch wanting to touch his brother, but Sam feels too good inside him and Dean doesn't really want to move unless it's to rock back to grind against Sam. He's so close already, so close; Sam is pure heat, sweet and hungry, enveloping Dean completely, and Dean is helpless against it. He surrenders himself, answering with heat of his own, staining the wall and his brother's fingers with slick-wet spurts as he comes, Sam's name on his lips, Sam's moans vibrating against him as his brother follows, spilling himself into Dean. 

There's cum running down the wall when they pull away from it, but they don't bother cleaning it up. They've left so much of their blood everywhere they've been, on walls and sheets and tiles, grass and asphalt, the Impala's upholstery. Their life ebbing away, a trickle/rush at a time. This at least is joy instead of pain.

When they were kids, for a long time it'd been shadow puppets on the walls instead. When they'd had no TV to pass the time, no new comic books, nothing to distract them from loneliness and empty stomachs while they waited for John to return from one of his hunts, Dean would make their motel room walls come alive with birds and elephants and horses for Sammy's amusement. Just a well-placed lamp and Dean's clever hands had been enough to make Sam smile. 

They fall in bed together now, and Dean finally touches his brother, running his hands all over Sam's body. His fingertips trail over each angle and plane, tracing careful (hopeful) dreams into Sam's skin. And when Sam smiles into his kiss, Dean's glad that he still knows how to keep his brother happy.

*

Neither of them is smiling when Sam leaves for Stanford. John's angry words hang too heavy and solid between them as Dean drops Sam off at the bus station; yet Dean can't bring himself to turn the car around and go without saying goodbye.

"Take care, Sammy," he whispers, the words choking him, his insides clenched tight. "I hope you find what you're lookin' for."

"Dean," Sam tries, reaching for him. But Dean shakes his head and pulls back as far as he can, twisting away from Sam; doesn't move or flinch when he tries to press himself flat against the door and the handle digs awkwardly into his side. 

"Just go," he says, closing his eyes, gripping the steering wheel tight. Dean thinks Sam might be crying as he gets out of the car, but he forces himself not to look. He can't. 

Driving back to his father, going in the opposite direction that Sam's heading in for the first time in his life, Dean starts to painstakingly build a wall around his heart, swearing to himself that he's never letting Sam that deep inside him again.

*

But he is. _Sam_. So deep inside Dean, a bright, aching thing that he never stops feeling, pulsing in his blood, shuddering in his every breath.

 _My weakness_ , Dean keeps telling himself. Over and over, even (especially) after Sam's back in his life. 

"You're my weakness, Sammy," he keeps telling his brother, again and again and again. 

It takes too long (so long) for Dean to realize that what they've always been is each other's strength. 

*

They're driving down a dusty road. Just the two of them, no one else for miles, hours. The sun is setting behind them, a blazing orange orb slowly painting the sky in deepening shades of blue and purple. The field of wheat on both sides of the road stretches far and wide, yellow turned into gold by the light.

This could be any road. It could be anywhere, any _when_ , space and time turned meaningless because they're together. The ground under the Impala's wheels, the wind coming in through their rolled-down windows, the comfortable silence between them, it all feels familiar, even though Dean's pretty sure he's never lived this exact moment before. 

Sam is familiar beside him; it's been like this for a while now (months, years) and on days like this one Dean has no doubts about anything. He and his brother won't be going anywhere without the other ever again. 

His brother. Dean steals glances at him, smiles with contentment when Sam glances back at him and rests his hand on his thigh. His thumb rubs against Dean's jean-clad knee, and he smiles at Dean too before turning his face to look out his window again. 

"Pull over," Sam says after a moment. Relaxed. Easy.

Dean cuts his gaze to him, raising an eyebrow. "Why, you gotta pee or somethin'?"

Sam huffs out an amused sound, more a breath than laughter. "Just pull over, Dean," he says again, giving Dean's thigh a squeeze before moving his hand away. Offering Dean only a smile as explanation.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he shrugs and does as Sam's asking. Steps out of the car when Sam does, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs even if he isn't saying so. 

There's nothing out here. No one else. Just the road and the field and the sky, going on and on and on, everything open wide, so wide that Dean can hardly breathe for an instant as he looks up into that vast distance. And when Sam comes around the car and steps into Dean's space, reaching for him, Dean goes without a fight. Sam's hands come up to cup Dean's face, and Dean opens his mouth under his brother's and lets him in, his hands fisted in Sam's jacket. Pulling him close, closer, deeper in as Dean opens his whole self up to him, wider than the sky. 

_No one will ever love you more_ , Dean thinks, kissing that certainty into his brother. _No one else I could ever love this much_.

It's dark already by the time they get back in the car. Dean lets Sam drive, and as he dozes off in the passenger seat, he dreams about their house in Lawrence. The rooms as they'd once been, his toys, the pictures on the walls. John and Mary and sunlight coming in through the kitchen windows.

He dreams about Sam, safe in the knowledge that wherever this road might lead, it can't take them anywhere but home.


End file.
